


How It Goes

by loevrites



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Hogwarts Fourth Year, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Room of Requirement, Triwizard Tournament
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-12 06:10:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19941496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loevrites/pseuds/loevrites
Summary: However many times he'd imagined it over the years, he would always come to the conclusion, that the end can't differ too much from the beginning. The way it all came down to one simple thing: starting a new journey, on a path you'd had no idea even existed before you stepped on it. And he thought, after all, it must be beautiful to see everything clearly for the first time in your life.Or.Everyone in the wizarding world is born with a date on their left wrist that only they are able to see. The date is always somehow connected to the person's death - whether it's the diagnosis of a terminal illness, a surgery that ends badly, or death itself. It's been proven impossible to change, however many people tried, so the only thing left to do is try to enjoy your life as much as you can before it's too late.Harry Potter's date reads June 24th 1995.





	1. How It Starts

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, this is my first fic ever written in English and so I guess that means it's not gonna be the best thing you've ever read.   
> Also yeah, this one deal with a major character death AND both Harry and Draco are 14 in this so I'm just gonna say now that I most likely won't include anything sexual because!!!! child porn sucks. Anyways thanks for clicking I hope you enjoy :)
> 
> P.S. This first one is just a short prologue because who doesn't like those (spoiler: everyone).

Surprisingly enough, it never starts with a bang, although it's not quite as calm as one would imagine either.  
Sometimes, it's as quick as lightning. Have you noticed the way it cut through the sky when you weren't looking? And maybe after a while you can hear the wild scream of thunder, the aftermath of something beginning to exist. It's beautiful, even though it lasts just a little while.  
More often though, it's prolonged. Going and going on for hours on end, like the storms that used to scare you as a child, the ones that would last all night and leave you trembling underneath the covers, praying for your parents to come into the bedroom and comfort you.  


It doesn't matter too much though, because, after all, it always starts with a baby crying.  
What a weird thing, life. Isn't it? The way we're forced into existence without ever giving consent. An act of kindness, one might say. "Here you go, one life for you. It may be shit, we don't really care, just go on with it and try not to starve to death." We're never really asked "Would you like to live today? Or maybe just take a nap, yeah? Close your eyes, forget about whatever problems you may have, whatever school you may be failing, whatever job position may be slipping out of your fingers and just take a long nap, as long as you want, really. We won't judge you, you're okay. You're just human, like the rest of us."  


Instead, life is just carelessly thrown at us and we all are mostly fine with it, really. It's terribly hard at first, but we get jobs, get married, have children and we're happy. And maybe it's perfect, really, but by the time you think that you could just spend eternity like this - happy and in love, and maybe you have some problems, maybe your dad has cancer, or your kid is being bullied at school, but it's not anything you can't get through, can't fix. By the time it all seems to fall into place, all the pieces finally fitting each other...well, then you're dead. Life is being violently pulled out of your hands, the same way it was pushed down your throat before, but this time it's even worse. 

This time you aren't just scared of what's to come - you're also scared of the things you've got to lose.


	2. Mornings, Stares and Flashbacks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enjoy :)

Alright, let’s get this straight. Harry was never a morning person, not since he could remember, and especially not after having partied until 2 in the morning the previous night (”Gryffindor loses 30 points.”, „I’m very disappointed in you.”, „It’s a school night, why are those 11-year-olds not in bed?” and „I understand that everyone is very happy with the outcome of the first task but I’m going to have to ask all of you to go to sleep now. I bet Mr. Potter is very tired himself”).  


But it is 7:28 now and he desperately needs a wee. Besides, he couldn’t really sleep well anyway. Excitement, relief and happiness flowing through his veins, flooding his mind and affecting all of his thoughts, not letting sleep crawl in even after having consumed unreasonable amounts of Chocolate Frogs and Butterbeer. His sugar levels were through the roof last night, but the only thing he was able to focus on was the sound of blood rushing in his ears and the way he could feel the pulse underneath his skin every time he thought about that stupid golden egg. And damn, he just felt so alive that his body decided not to waste that sweet feeling on sleep, apparently.

He crawls out of the bed, trying his best not to make a sound because his mates still have another hour or so of precious sleep and he isn’t going to take that away from them.  


The reflection in the mirror of their shared bathroom stares at him and he stares back. “You look pathetic” he mumbles and the boy in the mirror winks at him. He presses the palms of his hands into his eyes, groaning, trying his best to rub the rest of his toss-and-turn sleep out of them as he is shaking his head, the not-so-much-curls-more-like-a-huge-lump-of-rat-fur slapping him in the face, waking him up a little bit, but simultaneously making him angry with himself, because _ouch_.

He looks in the mirror again and his reflection seems amused. His eyes focus on the huge pillow crease on his right cheek and the oh-so-dark circles under his eyes but other than looking like a hungover homeless junkie it’s not so bad. He actually had fun last night and the fact that he only managed to fall asleep at 4:30 in the morning was totally unimportant, his senses too overwhelmed with the sweet taste of victory (both when it comes to the Tournament and making up with Ron).  


He does what he came there to do, washing his hands afterward and frowning at his reflection (who is sticking his tongue out at him. The audacity that stupid mirror has angering his hormone-filled, 14-year-old mind). He makes his way downstairs, into the common room, and instantly regrets thinking it would be a good idea to spend the morning there (considering the number of bottles, leftover food and otherwise unspecified garbage trashing the whole place. Fred and George’s stupid tongue enlarging candy wraps all over the floor, which could only mean a filled up hospital wing and a very confused, and probably furious, Madam Pomfrey). So he picks up a lonely, dodgy-looking chocolate chip cookie from a table in the corner next to the fireplace and pushes it into his mouth, deciding to try and get some more sleep after all, climbing the stairs back up and yawning his mouth open (which causes an incredibly unflattering sight of the half-chewed biscuit crumbs slipping out and onto the steps, making him cuss and nearly trip) until he collapses back onto his bed and immediately falls back asleep.  


*

“Is he still looking?” Harry asks the general public in the Great Hall in a conspirational whisper, hiding behind his copy of _The Daily Prophet_ , which, as Luna didn’t fail to point out, he is holding upside down, the witch on the front page doing a handstand, unsatisfied with her current anti-gravity position. (”What’s the problem, you always hold _The Quibbler_ like this.”, “Yes, Harry, but this one is not _supposed_ to be held that way! You’re so silly sometimes, I have no idea how you managed to fight a dragon and win.”)

“Honestly, Harry” Hermione seems annoyed, the spoonful of oatmeal she’s desperately trying to push inside her mouth misses it by at least two inches; her gaze focused on whatever ~~brick~~ book she’s reading. “Just see for yourself. If he really is staring he’ll feel bad when he sees you stare back and maybe it’ll make him stop” She lets out a long sigh, closing her book with a loud thump and finally looks him in the eyes. “Plus, if he wants to stare so badly, you should just let him do it. By paying so much attention to it you just seem equally as obsessed.”

“I— what, no, he — he’s not — neither of us is obsessed with the other!” It comes out too loud for the sleepy air of the Gryffindor table and there are people frowning at him, annoyed and puzzled by the idea of someone being _loud_ at 8:30 o’clock. “I mean, Hermione, come on” he lowers his voice to a near whisper and scowls at her, which leaves her looking unfazed and unamused as ever. For whatever reason he wants to throw the remains of his eggs at the closest person he can find and, in this case, it’s Ron, uninterested in the everyday breakfast topic of Malfoy, halfway through his fish and chips, his indifference making Harry furious.

“I’m not obsessed with him, he obviously wants to talk about _something —_ I don’t know — but nobody’s obsessed with anybody, alright?” He hides his face in his palms, rubbing it and groaning, in hopes of not starting to blush, because it kind of seems as though both of them have been obsessed with the other for far too long, this constant _staring_ and _talking_ and _Malfoy Malfoy Malfoy_ making every single one of his friends irritated with his inability to admit it. He is obsessed with his rival and whether it’s just a stupid past-time or an evolving crush — he’d rather not know the answer.  


“Oh, Harry, I think you’re wrong.” It’s Luna this time and Harry is slowly starting to regret befriending this many girls. She doesn’t even look at him, her eyes focused on the plateful of grapes she’s currently devouring. (”You guys _do_ realize I only sit here because the grapes at the Ravenclaw table are disgusting, right? _Oh,_ but don’t tell them that, please, that would make them very sad and I hate it when tasty snacks are sad because of me”) She seems amused though and Harry notices that she’s biting down her smile, like it’s so hilarious that he doesn’t acknowledge his own bloody feelings.

  
“I’m 99 per cent sure he has a secret, very gay crush on you” She finally looks at him and her expression is so serious and calm all of a sudden, making him think that she kind of looks like Uncle Vernon when he’s seconds away from a tantrum, before his face would get all puffy and purple with fury. And, of course, that reminds him of a grape. A full circle of amusement that ceases to exist as the sense of her words finally gets through his head full of hair, to his brain.

  
Then he’s spitting his pumpkin juice all over Ron and the long-forgotten copy of _The Prophet,_ (”What the bloody fuck, mate?!”, “Language, Ronald”, “I’m sorry, ‘Mione but the bloody bastard just ruined my robes! _And_ they were freshly cleaned.”)

Harry’s eyes widen with disbelief, his mouth gaping in shock, because why on _bloody earth_ would she ever say something so stupid and outrageous?! Draco Malfoy could _not_ have a crush on him because they hated each other (obviously) and _nothing_ could change that.

Harry knows he’s lying to himself when the thought “ _I hate him just as much as he must hate me”_ goes through his head, and at that moment he realizes he is utterly and undeniably _fucked._

“I’m sorry, Luna” he forces out a fake chuckle and tries to focus all his attention on murdering the already dead chicken on his plate without taking his eyes off his blond friend. “But you must be mistaken. Nobody has a gay secret crush on anybody here.” He swallows loudly and the only word in his mind is _deny deny deny deny_ even though they’re not even talking about _his_ “secret gay crush”.

“Hmm, no, I’m pretty sure Draco Malfoy does.” She grins and Harry wants to make her _stop_ , but then she proceeds to lean in so close, her forehead almost smashing into his, that he’s taken aback and almost falls into Hermione’s annoyed and seemingly bored lap. “Last Tuesday, in the greenhouse, I overheard him talking to Pansy Patinson? Parkenson? Partix—  


“Parkinson”  


“Thank you, Hermione. Anyway, I overheard him talk to Pansy about...well your hair.” She looks a bit sheepish (“ _like she’s experiencing second-hand embarrassment”_ Harry thinks, mortified) maybe for the first time since Harry’s known her, but he realizes that his own expression says much more, his eyes wide, lips parted, midway through a gasp, as he bites them both down and _fuck_ he would like to stop thinking that it’s quite flattering, the fact Malfoy actually likes his mop of hair and all of his mockings has always been just a _shield_ from his actual feelings towards it. But he can’t and the thought is now tattooed to the insides of his brain, forever.  


“What” Harry wants to say that _no,_ this is impossible, because he does _not_ want his friends thinking about anything gay for too long, scared it might show on his face that he maybe would _like_ if Malfoy had any feelings of gayness for him, that he himself has been thinking surprisingly gay thoughts in the boy’s direction for a couple of months now. Instead, he just clears his throat and plasters a smile on, trying to pretend like he’s OK, this was _OK_ and he isn’t blushing or biting his tongue until he tastes blood, because it’s stupid and it’s _Malfoy,_ and he hates this whole talk.  


“Luna” he is now focusing all of his willpower on trying to sound bored or at least like he is most definitely _not_ losing his mind. “I’m pretty sure talking about someone’s hair doesn’t mean you have a secret gay crush on them.” And she just _shru_ _gs,_ like this is nothing and Harry isn’t _screaming_ inside his head to get out of this conversation _now._

  
”Whatever you say, but I’m telling you, Harry, there’s something within that boy that screams: ”I have a secret gay crush on Harry James Potter!” and then she is almost yelling those words out, banging her fists onto the table and Harry is sinking in his chair, trying to disappear entirely, melt into butter and _get out,_ but before he can decide, whether a wand to the head or a death potion will be a better suicide option, there’s laughter emerging from a few random people scattered ‘round the Gryffindor table and Harry’s face is about to burn off, leaving nothing but his skull and thoughts about Draco Bloody Malfoy behind.

  


*

The thing about Draco Malfoy is, that he’s an annoying git who thinks he’s better than everyone else just because he’s a Malfoy — a pureblood — and that should be enough for Harry to hate him, despise every single cell in the boy’s body, want to punch him in the face, make him pay for all the insults sent his friends’ way. Except he can’t do that, not since that bloody accident last year. The way Malfoy’s cries had Harry trembling, his eyes wide open, body shaken by what could only be described as _worry._ And Harry hates himself for that, really, because Malfoy is an _annoying git_ and he doesn’t deserve anyone to care if he lives or dies, doesn’t deserve anyone to care for him, and he _especially_ did not deserve Harry Potter, his sworn enemy, to think about him at night, body shaking with fear as he asked himself the question “ _Is he going to be okay?”_ over and over again.

And so he was staring throughout the entirety of their third year, provoked fights and arguments just so Malfoy would look at him, say something, _anything,_ because the attention from the blonde was truly the only thing he wanted, not really sure why or what the fluttering thing in his chest was (it usually would come out whenever Malfoy looked at him for longer than a split second, emerging from the depths of his stomach and wanting to fly out of his ribcage).  


The worst part was, he would become even angrier and more upset when Malfoy didn’t insult him, when he sat in his chair, indifferent, unmoved by Harry’s quarrels, taking notes and not paying attention in the slightest _,_ smirking under his breath, because he knew Harry wanted him to respond, and infuriating him even more with his silence.  


And, so, the third year concluded with frustration and overall confusion — because Harry was bloody obsessed with the blonde for almost the entirety of the year, and yet, he hasn’t figured out what his feelings towards the boy really meant.

It only started making sense during summer vacation, the lonely feeling in his chest present at all times, creeping its way into Harry’s throat and forming a huge lump in there, making him gag and cough. Because he _missed_ the boy — his smirk, forever plastered onto his face, his stupid white hair and the snarky comments about Harry’s grades or his friends, or his stupid curly hair. And as he stared at the ceiling at night, unable to fall asleep, he’d catch himself thinking of those cold grey eyes, imagining he could see something other than hate and disgust in the hue, as he drifted off.

And then the unimaginable happened. Because on September 5th, 1994 they bumped into each other and for the first time in their lives they didn’t try to murder one another.

~

_Harry tighten_ _s_ _his grip on the piece of parchment McGonagall gave him_ _th_ _r_ _ee_ _days ago, the timetable in his hand already torn in a couple_ _of_ _places, traces of pumpkin juice_ _smeared_ _around the edges,_ _tainting the_ _thing a slight yellow color_ _. His whole body_ _is_ _shaking as he spe_ _eds_ _down the hallway, walking up and then down the same flight of stairs, groaning and jumping over the missing step. He stop_ _s_ _abruptly and realizes_ _he_ _is_ _back_ _right next to the Gryffindor common room and_ _he’s_ _ready to_ _just_ _start sobbing,_ _frustration building up in him, annoying like a buzzing fly._ _He’_ _s_ _already five minutes late and_ _he cannot_ _manage to find his way to the Divination classroom, which — according to H_ _e_ _rmione’s words — should be right_ _here. But he is only met with The Fat Lady frowning at him lightly_  


“ _Back so soon, dear?”_

_He’s getting angrier by the minute so he waves his hand at her dismissively, (which earns him an exasperated gasp) turns around and starts walking in the opposite direction, mostly just to do something with his jittery legs. And then, before he even notices that something is wrong, that someone is bumping into him, his bum is already hitting the cold castle floor, his books flying out of his bag, timetable nowhere to be seen, eyes widening in shock. He lets out a surprised huff of air and looks around sheepishly, his tailbone hurting against the hard stone floor._  


” _Shit, sorry — fuck — I wasn’t looking, you okay?” Harry blink_ _s_ _dumbly at Draco Malfoy’s extended hand, standing up on his own_ _(_ _thankyouverymuch_ ) _and dusting his trousers off_ _._

_He_ _looks around the floor to gather his scattered things back into the bag when he realizes that M_ _alfoy_ _was f_ _aster, already offering Harry his_ _full_ _bag back,_ _smirking at the shorter boy’s confusion, his eyes full of this_ Malfoy _look, and even though he was just nice to Harry, he is still the same pureblood shithead, about to insult his dead parents or something of the sorts. And yet Harry is lost in that smirk, the shadow of a smile hiding in the corner of his mouth, his eyes piercing through Harry’s skin; drilling through to the other side. It’s so intense that Harry has to look away, defeated._

” _Ugh — y-_ _yeah_ _” he clear_ _s_ _his throat and t_ _akes_ _the bag_ _from the other bloke’s hand, their fingers brushing, his body shivering a little at the cold touch as he catches himself_ _blinking like an idiot_ _again_ _._

_He want_ _s_ _to turn away as fast as he c_ _an_ _because Draco Malfoy has just been nice to him for the first time since they’_ _d_ _met,_ _but at the same time he’s fighting the urge to move closer, brush his fingers through Malfoy’s white fringe, put his hand on his cheek and just stay that way until_ _the day he dies._

_He_ _feels_ _that weird tingling sensation in his chest_ _again, his feet stuck to the floor. He must have been hexed or maybe he’s just frozen, because this is so weird, and yet Harry has never felt anything better than this very moment._  


“ _Good talk” Malfoy_ _sounds_ _amused_ _, the smirk deepening, his brows frowning a little bit, as he turns away and begins to walk._

_And then there’s the question and he’s begging all of his senses to_ shut the fuck up _because he is going to embarrass himself, say something stupid like he always does. But it’s already too late and he listens, as someone — himself, apparently — speaks in an anxious, yet somehow fearless voice._

” _D’you know where the Divination classroom is?”_  


~

The memory of the bumpy (haha, get it?) beginnings of Harry’s downfall makes him frown at his half-eaten eggs, but it’s too late and he’s already jumped down the rabbit hole of unpleasant flashbacks and snippets of memories. He feels the burning sting of Draco Malfoy’s eyes on his face, can sense his stare even from this far and he sighs but refuses to look up, drowning in his thoughts instead.

~

“ _Mr. Potter, I’m sorry but this is pathetic” McGonagall looks up into Harry’s eyes from the pitiful looking duckling-turned-cup. It still has a quacking beak and Harry’s already warned her not to pick it up because it will not hesitate to bite (his aching pinkie agrees silently as the duckling cup tries to jump to the edge of the table). “Right, please, sit next to Mr. Malfoy, he had the best marks last semester and should be able to...” she hesitates, as though trying to explain to him nicely that he is, in fact, really fucking daft. “to — to help you with whatever issues you’re having.”_

_He looks at her like she’s a fairly big elephant riding a tricycle, mouth gaping because he is supposed to sit next to_ who? _No, this can’t be right, he can’t be forced to embarrass himself again, not when he was finally starting to recover from last week’s incident._

“ _Potter” she sounds annoyed and it hits him in the face, makes him close his mouth, push his things into his bag and (very carefully) proceed to pick up his quacking cup. He takes a few deep breaths, as he walks towards Malfoy’s table, eyes on the ground, trying to prepare himself for what is most likely going to be a stream of insults and stupid, stupidly beautiful, smirks._

_He’s surprised when everything he gets is a pitiful half-smirk, half-frown down at his, now screeching, cup. Malfoy’s wand flicks and the atrocious thing turns back into a duckling, which does nothing to stop the screeching, though._

“ _I think you’ve transfigured it’s brain into porridge, Potter” Malfoy lets out a sigh, transfigures the duckling into it’s required final state and raises his hand to ask for another one. He doesn’t say he hates him or that his mother deserved to die and it’s just basic human decency, Harry knows it, and it should not make him want to smile as much as it does._

_~_

  


“ _All of you will now find a partner and together you will have an hour to draw a number from the bowl, each number corresponding to a certain potion, and prepare it. This will be twenty-five percent of your final grade.” Snape declared in the most monotone voice Harry’s ever heard, boredom being ripped out from him, instead, his lungs are being filled with anxiety._  


“ _Potter, Weasley” Harry jolts his head up, expecting, by the look on the professor’s face, to hear all three of the Unforgivables all at once. “Don’t even think about pairing up. Weasley, you will work with Parkinson. And Potter” he takes too long of a pause and smirks, Harry feels his whole body sinking. “You will join Mr. Malfoy at his table”_  


_Of fucking course. Harry takes his things and stands up with a groan, his bag swinging around him as he moves, angry and_ hopeful _but mostly angry. He throws his bag on Malfoy’s table and throws himself down at the chair, biting down another groan, because then Draco Malfoy is looking at him, something between a smirk and a smile embellishing his pale face. Harry wants to frown but instead, he takes his things out of the bag once more and tries not to look at the boy beside him._  


_Everything seems wrong and painfully right at the same time. He can see Malfoy’s long fingers in the corner of his eye and he feels the strong urge to_ touch, _to feel the coldness of his palm and the softness of his milky skin. He feels a tingle crawling up his neck and he shakes his head, hair flying everywhere and his cheeks are red,_ so red _because he was just thinking about holding Draco Malfoy’s fucking hand and if that doesn’t show he is long gone, he doesn’t know what will._  
  


_~_

  
  


_The library is full because it’s 7 PM on a Sunday and Harry shouldn’t be surprised, but he still freezes in the middle of the filled up room, trying to think of a way out._  


_Because there is a vacant seat next to Malfoy and Harry is mentally getting ready to study in his bed, but then he considers the back pains he’d get after that and decides against it, says a mental “_ fuck it” _and rushes to the table._  


“ _Malfoy” their eyes meet and Harry can already feel the redness of his cheeks, and he can only hope it’s not visible from where he is standing, his hand scratching the back of his neck in a nervous manner._  


“ _Potter” he says like it’s a greeting and Harry wants to feel weird about it, but then he remembers that he did the same thing just a second ago and relaxes. Malfoy doesn’t look particularly inclined to hex him, his gaze calm and tired, the mess around him on the table making it obvious he’s been studying for a couple of hours at least and Harry’s look soften, the usual nervousness surrounding him during every one of their encounters fades away and then, he realizes, he’s calm. Because Draco Malfoy looks tired and not threatening and_ cozy _like this is where he likes to be on Sunday evenings._  


“ _Uh, I —” his breath catches, he makes a mental note that talking is actually harder than staring and he’s considering fleeing again, but Malfoy’s brow is raised, corners of his mouth pull upwards in a curious smile and Harry knows he can’t resist the other boy. “Is this seat taken?” He anticipates the answer, hands shaking, palms sweating, because it’s Draco Malfoy and Harry is sure at this point that he has a painfully obvious crush on him, simply because he catches himself actually_ longing _for a “no”._  


“ _Suit yourself” Malfoy replies, head gesturing at the chair beside him and, to Harry’s visible surprise, moves his books a little to the side, pieces of parchment rolling off the table and onto the floor, Malfoy curses under his breath and he looks adorable, Harry thinks, clumsy and sleepy, and_ human.

_Harry sits down and lets out the longest sigh of his life, preparing for the hardest evening of his life and praying to whatever gods there are that he doesn’t start thinking about snogging Malfoy or he might actually lose his mind this time._

  
  


_~_

  
  
_They study together on Sundays all throughout the month of September, Ron and Hermione unavailable due to their shared detention (“I’m telling you, Harry, it was all his fault, he started whisper-yelling at me during potions and — and you know how Snape is, he said it was me who was being too loud and then Ron was shouting at him that he’s a blood purist and whatnot and — and”)._

  
_Okay, maybe they aren’t studying “_ together _”, not exactly. At the same table, yes, sharing one ink-bottle, but distant, silent. Sometimes Harry asks him if he knows how to spell a certain word and Malfoy tells him something along the lines of “you’re dumb, shut up” but then he helps him out anyway._  


_And as September morphs into October they start to have small talk._

“ _Why isn’t the Wonder Boy studying with his friends?”_  


“ _Detention.”_  


“ _Understandable.”_

_And half an hour later:_

“ _Potter, you have any idea what happened in the year 1583?”_

“ _Probably a Goblin War.”_

“ _This whole chapter is about Goblin Wars you twat.”_  


_Silence follows, Harry’s eyes are too tired, he has to read one paragraph three times to understand it and Malfoy’s warm shoulder close to his is distracting, driving him further away from the assignment and closer to the fluttering feeling in his chest._

“ _How come you always study alone as well?”_  


_Malfoy doesn’t reply at once, but fifteen minutes later the reply startles Harry and he almost asks a dumb question, before he remembers his previous one._

“ _I can’t focus because of them.”_

_And Harry can feel the lie settle in the air around them, linger, crawl under his clothes and kick him in the stomach, but he doesn’t say anything else._

_~_

  
  
” _Found it.” it must be after 11 already because Madam Pince is starting to sweep the floor and sends them a worried look but doesn’t say anything._

  
“ _What?” Malfoy mumbles, his eyes are barely open at this point, his breath slow._

  
“ _1583\. The end of the eighth Goblin War.”_

  
“ _Mmm. What was the outcome?”_

  
“ _No idea.” And then Harry is closing his books, because it’s too late and he finds Malfoy entirely too cute when he’s tired and it’s just not fair that he has to be here_ torturing _himself._

  
_Harry gets up from the table and is about to leave in silence, but as he’s walking away he glances around his shoulder. And Draco Malfoy is sitting there, peaceful and tired, and_ beautiful, _Harry makes a mental note. He finds him beautiful and it would be scarier if it wasn’t as stunning as a lightning bolt._

  
_Harry wonders what it would feel like to put his fingers into the strands of near-white hair and it makes him crack a smile._

  
“ _Stop staring, Potter.”_

  
_Silence. Two heartbeats in a library, two dates on two wrists. One Madam Pince._

  
“ _Goodnight, Malfoy.”_

  
  


*

  
  
That first Sunday of October was the last time they studied together _—_ after that, Ron and Hermione were free of their detention and the three of them would hunch over books in the Gryffindor common room. Sometimes George would help them with a silencing charm so that they could read in peace and laugh at Ron’s stupid fart jokes. And Harry was hesitant to admit it even to his own self _—_ but even though he loved them and had so much fun with his friends, he still missed those evenings spent in silence with no one else but Draco Malfoy.

  
And of course, he seemed to miss them, too, because he never stopped staring at Harry during every meal since they’ve stopped partaking in their weekly ritual. It made Harry shiver, still does, Malfoy’s eyes cutting through the air in the Great Hall like daggers, digging into Harry’s skin, drilling deeper and deeper, until Harry looks up and scares the boy away.

  
And every single time Malfoy looks down, embarrassed, or maybe surprised that Harry can sense his gaze on himself. And every single time Harry wants to yell at him for breaking their eye contact, because the grey eyes that used to be filled with hate before, are now finally clear, calm and full of something else, something Harry can’t put a name on.

  


  
*

  


  
Harry yawns, Ron’s laugh bringing him back to the Great Hall, to November 25th and he dumps his fork into his still half-full plate, his friends laughing around him. He feels safe and happy, because he’s got his best mate back and he has a screeching golden egg, but then his gaze wanders to the invisible mark on his wrist and he sighs. He always sighs, because he always hopes that one day he’s going to look down and the date will be different. Changed. Distant, maybe. June 24th, 2050 for all he bloody cares.

He sends a sad smile down his forearm and locks his eyes on the black lines only he’s able to see, and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he should cherish those glances and stares Malfoy keeps sending his way until he no longer has a chance do to so.

  
The date on his wrist reads June 24th, 1995, unchanged, still, a wall between Harry and what could be his life, if it wasn’t going to be ripped from his hands in almost exactly seven months.

  
He closes his eyes and in that moment alone, he just breathes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -i hope it isnt confusing, the cursive text is supposed to be obvious flashbacks  
> -hhhh i worked really hard on this one so id appreciate kudos if you liked the first actual chapter :))  
> -idk how often im gonna be able to upload but im going to try no less than one chapter a week !


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